


The Turnaround

by lechatnoir



Series: Spiraling Blues and Old Cobblestone Hues [2]
Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: 1920s AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which, there is a sadness that can only be danced away.</p>
<p>A simple small interlude after the events of "So They Met On the Corner of Madison and Fifth". </p>
<p>Based off of the tumblr fic prompt : Tarantism - The urge to overcome melancholy by dancing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Turnaround

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pretzel_logic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pretzel_logic/gifts).



> also up on tumblr uwu!
> 
> you can find me under chrysanthemumskies @ tumblr uwu!

I.

 

It is the old shutters on windows coated with dust, books silently humming as outside the world roared with sputtering engines and old rickety cars humming along the cobblestones.

They are broken up bandages and old healing gunshot wounds, but they’re alright. 

They’ve learned how to read the silent cues from each other, nothing but the sound of armchairs rustling and paper pages flipping with wet ink slowly falling asleep on the parchment as the sky rumbled like a sleeping lion and their little shop of books seemed to lull them asleep. 

It was one of those days , when they thought of old dusty floorboards with powder on it - almost like snow, and maybe it was, if you were to inhale enough of it, or let it get into your blood like a monster that slowly ripped you apart from the inside out. 

Sometimes, Tooth gets locked up in a little cycle where there are old thoughts that she wishes would never come out , would never rise up to the surface like old debris from a sinking ship and she wonders why and how she still breathes, slowly but surely she breathes and sometimes she’ll stop mid-tally when she’s taking down the inventory of everything and needs to close her eyes to think, or to let herself slowly calm down, whispering a little mantra of 

“You’re alive, you’re alive , you’re alive “ - like how she did not too long ago, hiding beneath the counter of an old abandoned parlor bar, with nothing but shards of glass littering the floor, madmen laughing and cold words waging war. 

Sometimes, she’ll freeze up, hands trembling and a panic rising through her throat but then there’ll be a pin dropping or the rustle of papers and she’ll snap out of it, slowly, not quickly, but she’ll gradually regain herself and she doesn’t notice it, but Pitch keeps an eye out, and he stops whatever it is that he’s doing - be it tending to a customer or muttering about how the world seems to have slowly lost its mind, with the idea of the thought of world war -it doesn’t matter though, not really, because he puts a hand on her shoulder, or watches her from behind the frames of his horn rimmed reading classes and he leaves her with a gently kiss to the forehead and a quiet little hymn of snippets of poetry and quotes - something to distract her - 

“How much better is silence; the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here for ever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.” 

\- sometimes she’d laugh at him, tell him that he’s lost his mind or something like that and he would only smile instead, and mutter quietly that she must’ve hit her head on the headboard of the bed again which is why she’s so clumsy today hm? 

They’d bicker like children, when that happened.

It didn’t stop the loneliness from creeping into their hearts, or the shivers that ran down their spines when they would curl up into each other in the armchairs that were littered around their shop, watch the rain gently batter itself against the window panes. 

“Hey, Tooth?”

“Mm?”

“Why don’t we dance?”

Ii.

It’s the sound of a piano playing, simple notes repetitive and calm and there’s a certain giddiness that fills Pitch up - as if he’s a fizzy drink about to burst and Tooth doesn’t know why, only knows that she’s too tired to dance, too sad to dance.

It doesn’t stop him from pulling her up and out of the armchair and putting on the record player and yet she found herself smiling a bit, just a little bit - a little smile for no one but him, because she was ice walls and armored wounds, even after what had happened to them. 

She finds his hands on her waist and there’s a stupid grin that makes its way onto her face as she hears the song and she doesn’t know why -- _Maybe it’s just Sinatra’s doing_ \- but it feels like home, like the entire city manages to fill her up with life, and him too - and so they dance.

They don’t talk, they don’t look - they don’t let the bombs crashing outside phase them.

It’s simply the rat ta ta and a one two three and they’re free.

“I never would have thought of you to be a dancer, Pitch.”

“You don’t think, at all , Tooth.”

“Say that to my fists before I rub that smirk off your face, Black.”

He can only smile and the song changes again, old record player scratching and turning and it’s fine - it’s angry and they move fast and quick and it’s like an old friend , a little visit from the past perhaps - but it’s as if they’ve done this before, not for show or farce but truthfully danced a little dance, full of unexpected turns and touches and it’s warm and odd but it works for them . 

It’s them dancing along the cobblestones, soaked to the bone with rain drops that fall on them but it’s fine - they dance through the streets to the sound of nothing but a old melody that they built together, a little serenade that they can only sing to each other .

It’s old red strings and sleighbells, with little autumn winds and a rat ta tat of shoes clicking against cobblestones, down on the corner of Madison and Fifth. 

And that’s how they kept it, secret kisses and little dances in between parchment paper and inkwells filled with ink as dark as the sleeping sky.

And they were fine, sadness and all.

They danced the night away and sealed it with a kiss, and they were fine.


End file.
